


Would You Kill Me In My Sleep?

by specialagentwoodfinch



Series: Island [1]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Artist!Gerard - Freeform, Crime, Detective/suspect dynamic, Enemies to Lovers, Frank hates boats, Hanging description, Injury, Island life, Isolation, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Murder, Murder Mystery, Police Procedural, Prostitution, Rimming, Seasickness, Slow Burn, Violence, Voyeurism, Weather, Wildlife, boat travel, detective!frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialagentwoodfinch/pseuds/specialagentwoodfinch
Summary: Frank greets the sight of the tiny harbour on the island ahead with … well, not joy exactly. Probably something a lot closer to relief. The skipper mercifully gets the boat moored up quickly and Frank clambers ashore as easily as his wobbly knees and sneakers will carry him. He heaves his heavy backpack onto his shoulder.A murder mystery AU
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Series: Island [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2159487
Comments: 76
Kudos: 30





	1. All The Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Title from It’s Not A Fashion Statement, It’s A Fucking Deathwish by My Chemical Romance 
> 
> *****
> 
> This is the longest fic I have written so far. It’s all written and I am planning to post a chapter a week - see how that goes. I am usually too impatient to wait! And beware, I am having fun with cliffhangers.  
> Please check the tags because it is violent and people die - wouldn’t really be a murder mystery if they didn’t - so if this isn’t your thing, beware.  
> This first chapter is mostly scene setting. I hope you like it!  
> Chapter title from The Ghost Of You by My Chemical Romance

The boat shifts and tilts with the push from a powerful wave and his stomach lurches. Frank feels the sweat trickle slowly across his forehead. It puts a cool sheen on the clammy nausea that is washing over his whole body, but mostly sits heavily, like a large frog, deep in his belly. 

He stares grimly at the horizon that just keeps dipping and rising, then lurching with every change of direction. It doesn’t help at all. His stomach just keeps churning and there is a growing pool of cold at the base of his spine telling him that he could still vomit. He grips hard onto the rail at the side of the open boat and swallows thickly. 

He hates boats. 

He has always fucking hated boats, from the first time his parents took him in a paddle boat on the lake and he screamed as loud as a two year old can. To the time a riverboat he was on nearly sank and he stood balls deep in ice cold water cursing the idiot friends that took him there. He hates the waves, he hates the motion that makes him sick down to his sneakers and the taste of bile in his mouth that follows. He hates the iodine smell of seawater, the chatter of gulls, the shit from them that inevitably lands on him. He hates the people. Smug shits with weatherbeaten faces and practical waterproof clothing. He hates life jackets and safety briefings and the slap of wet ropes and waves lapping under jetties. 

Frank hates the sea and the people who sail on it almost as much as he hates travelling on boats. He has tried his hardest for many years to avoid boats and water and the sea. 

But here he is. 

He tried to say no to this case, tried to convince his boss that he could recover perfectly well at home with a crate of beer and his porn subscriptions. But somehow, considering what had happened, they didn’t consider that a proper recovery. So this case, the isolation of the tiny port, the boat and the suspect on the island is his to solve. Apparently the peace and isolation will do him good. Frank is not convinced. And the waves the little wooden motor-powered boat is ploughing through are definitely not convincing him that this is somewhere he wants to be. The buffeting of the boat and the wind whipping up sharply salty spray into Frank’s face is not helping his mood. 

He hunches his shoulders into the all weather jacket that Ray, the local liaison officer, told him to buy. Grudgingly he can admit it is keeping him warm and dry but it is not doing anything for the sea sickness or his mood. 

Frank greets the sight of the tiny harbour on the island ahead with … well, not joy exactly. Probably something a lot closer to relief. The skipper, Brian, mercifully gets the boat moored up quickly and Frank clambers ashore as easily as his wobbly knees and sneakers will carry him. He heaves his heavy backpack onto his shoulder. 

Frank checks the route he needs to take to the artist’s cottage with Brian. He knows there is no chance of a phone signal on the island but he checks it anyway. There is nothing. Great. Frank really wanted to be reminded he is pretty much stuck here until the boat returns in a few days. It’s early afternoon and the walk to the old island warden’s cottage that the artist lives in shouldn’t take more than an hour so he should get there well before the October sun goes down. 

He waves to Brian as he steers the tiny boat away from the jetty. It is only a few minutes before the engine noise fades away and he is left alone with just the sound of the wind and the calls of seabirds to keep him company. 

He climbs a set of steps cut into the slick grey-wet stone, gripping tightly to the rusty metal rail that rattles alarmingly. He tenses his shoulders and puffs his way as swiftly as he can up the steep cliff steps. He stops to catch his breath at the top and is instantly blasted with a lively sea breeze. Tiny icy pellets of rain scour his cheeks. 

“Fucking a,” Frank mutters. 

From the top of the cliff, Frank has a clear view of the island under the cold grey rain cloud. Greeny-brown scrub, littered with rocks, sparsely covers the undulating surface of the island. There are no trees, apart from a few scrubby bushes, leaning scratchy limbs away from the prevailing wind. A narrow ribbon of charcoal grey road winds across the island to a tiny block of white, topped with a black roof, that Frank assumes is the artist’s home. There is a long curl of black smoke emerging from the chimney. The whole scene would be bleak if it weren’t for the bright shafts of light that pierce the raincloud and illuminate patches of vivid peat-enriched grass and skim swiftly across the island and then flash over the sea. He grudgingly admits that the scenery is wildly beautiful. 

Frank pulls the hood of his coat close around his ears, retrieves the fingerless gloves from his pocket and puts them on his already red-raw hands. He hunches his shoulders against the brisk wind and starts walking. The walk along the track in the buffeting wind to the cottage is only partly improved by the view. 

The only sounds that penetrate the sharp whistle of the wind are his trudging feet on the fine gravel of the track and the screeching calls of seabirds. They act like white noise, clearing his head of the thoughts that usually grind against his skull, making rest a futile dream. Instead he allows a soundtrack of favourite songs to play in his head and, for some inexplicable reason, it’s Take My Breath Away that seems to get stuck. 

“Whatever,” he mumbles and keeps walking. 

He finds his mind wanders as he walks. Back to the events that brought him here, sure, but also to thoughts of old friends he hadn’t considered for years, to past hookups, to strange stories of islands. There is one about a man who falls in love with a seal woman and who is eventually lured to death by drowning that makes him shudder. He realises he has completely forgotten where he is and what he is here for. So he straightens his back, shakes his head and opens his eyes wide, trying to get back into the present. 

He looks ahead to try to see the cottage. The strange perspective on the island means it has disappeared although the smoke trail from the chimney is still visible above the rocky horizon. 

And for a moment, he thinks there is something else. A dark figure in the distance, glimpsed among the boulders so briefly that he can’t be sure it isn’t just his imagination or a trick of the swiftly changing light. It looked hunched, like a reflection of himself. Probably projection, the voice of his therapist says in his mind. He grunts and shakes his head, trying to dislodge them from his thoughts. 

He stops and pulls a metal water canister from his backpack. He puts the cold rim to his lips and pulls thirstily, the chill water scalding his dry throat and barely refreshing his windblown mouth. He gnaws on a tasteless energy bar while his mind thoughtfully supplies an image of a drip of condensation rolling slowly down a glass of ice cold beer. It doesn’t help the growing feeling in his chest. The feeling of being abandoned on the edge of the world, isolated and alone. 

But he isn’t really alone. The shadow of a bird hovering overlays his own. He glances up to see a bird of prey, wings wide, floating and circling on the buffeting breeze. 

He heaves the pack back onto his shoulders and begins to walk again. Now the shadows are lengthening, the sun over to the west is beginning to dip low in the sky. It makes the rocks cast even more eerie shadows so he is grateful that the next slight incline reveals the cottage. It is below him in a slight dip, where a stream runs across marsh and between a few scattered copses of low, bare trees. 

From closer to, the cottage looks cosy. It is a low one storey building of rough stone, painted white and ghostly in the grey light, with rain-slick black slate tiled roof and small, low windows tucked up into the roofline. It looks rugged but cared for, with a low wall of rough stone around the garden and, as Frank gets closer, little grotesque statues peeking out from between the stones, under the roof and around the rock edging to the tiny lawn. 

There are warm lights glowing from some of the windows. Frank steps under the small porch and raps on the black painted door. 

There is silence from the house. He waits in the doorway and sighs. He knows there was a risk the artist wouldn’t be at home but his contacts on the mainland said that he had not recently left the island. Frank knew he was taking a risk visiting without warning but he wanted the artist to be caught off guard. He would already be more at ease in his own home so Frank wanted his presence to be unexpected. 

He raps again on the door. There is a groaning, creaking sound and the door opens a little. A black cat with white paws squeezes out and slinks along the side of the cottage. 

Frank peers through the crack. 

“Mr Way?” 

“Who wants to know?” a voice replies from behind the door. 

Frank fishes his ID from his jacket pocket and slides it round the edge of the door. 

“Oh fuck. Police? Mr … what’s that say?”

“Iero.”

“I - ear - oh?” the voice stammers. 

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“What do you want?”

“I would like to talk to you. And inside if that’s ok with you. It’s a bit cold out here.”

“Do I have to talk to you? Are you arresting me?” 

“No, not at all. I just need to talk with you. I would appreciate being indoors though,” Frank says, teeth chattering. 

He hears a sigh, then the door slowly creaks open. Frank steps into the dimly lit house and the door whines shut behind him.


	2. Lie And Wait Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Ghost Of You by My Chemical Romance

Frank sips the hot coffee from the old chipped mug and warms his hands. He gazes at the artist and waits. 

“So you came all this way just to talk to me about something that happened fifteen years ago?” the artist - Gerard - inquires. 

Frank observes him. It is one of his talents, reading people. He is good at what he does because he can see people’s emotions in their face and hands, in how they move and the tone of their voice. He has all the time in the world so he can be patient. And he can see a lot when he says nothing because people don’t like silence. He has gone far in his career because some people really don’t like silence. 

Frank sees a man in his late thirties. He is a little overweight with hunched shoulders and a rounded face. He has a mop of spiky lemon blonde hair that is clearly not natural and there is a blush of pink high on his cheeks. His nose is delicate, upturned, his eyes a soft, liquid hazel with distinctive dark, arched brows. When he smiles, sometimes it is only out of one side of his mouth. His slim lips reveal strangely small teeth like he never lost his milk teeth as a child. He has bitten fingernails and there is dirt on his hands and face. His features are not weatherbeaten enough to suggest he usually works outside in this environment. The sense Frank gets is of an adult who has never quite left behind the innocence of childhood. Frank is not sure if that is attractive or discomforting. The artist’s voice is high pitched and has a distinctive accent, a sound that is very familiar to Frank but he stores it away under “not relevant here”. 

The man seems gentle and a little naive. Frank does not allow himself to be taken in by this. He squirms a little on his chair at his kitchen table under Frank’s cool examining eye. He has a habit of flapping a splayed out hand and rubbing his eye with the heel. Frank has yet to decide whether to file that as a nervous tell as the man seems to have a range of nervous appearing habits and it is not clear if all of them are visible because he is talking to a police officer. His demeanour suggests someone who is not at ease with other people and it doesn’t take a genius to read their location as a retreat from the world. Whether his isolated home stems from fear or flight Frank marks as a longer term question to answer. 

And it would seem that Gerard is a talker. 

“I don’t understand why you are interested after all this time. I spoke to the police then and they weren’t really interested. They were more keen to know about Mikey and how he might be involved. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. But it’s been so long I am hardly going to remember anything new from then. My memory is pretty poor at the best of times. I don’t really need it here for what I do now. I can work for hours, days even, without stopping when I need to get a piece done. I have no interruptions here - no phone, no internet. I just have to remember to feed the cats and myself and I don’t always do that. When I am deep into my work everything falls away, even time, and I just drift …” 

Gerard stops. His eyelashes flutter up to gaze at Frank. 

“Where are you staying on the island?” 

His question is unexpectedly sharp considering the rambling that preceded it. Frank is not surprised, just curious about the swift changes of gear the artist is capable of. 

“Nowhere.”

Gerard looks surprised. 

“But the boat won’t be able to get here for another few days because of the storm and the tides. There isn’t anywhere to stay. That’s why we don’t get visitors. There’s really nowhere else.” 

Frank regards at him coolly. He knows that there is no phone or cell signal on the island and Gerard’s only means of communication with the mainland is by short wave radio. He wants to see what the man will do. He scratches up into his hair, another nervous habit that explains why his hair is so messy and matted. 

“Oh. You want to stay here.” 

Frank keeps just looking at Gerard, wondering how many questions the man can answer for himself. 

“Why would you come here, knowing you would need to rely on me for your survival here? You don’t know anything about me apart from what you know about whatever case you are investigating. Isn’t that dangerous for you? I might not want you here. I might feel threatened by you.”

Even sharper. Frank is re-evaluating his initial impression of the man’s naivety. 

Gerard laughs. 

“Then you’re the one taking the risk. You know nothing about me but you are welcome to stay. But I am not exactly set up for guests. You will have to fit in with how I live.” 

And Frank feels the moment the power shifts subtly away from him. He is the one at the mercy of the artist in this bleak environment. And if he wants to get anything he needs he is going to have to play a different game. 

“Ok. How can I help?” Frank asks brightly. 

Gerard raises an eyebrow. 

Frank likes games of cat and mouse when it’s not clear who is the cat and who is the mouse. 

Gerard hums. 

“If you mean that, you can either cook us a meal or there is a cat shelter outside that needs fixing. Which one are you offering?” 

Frank knows there are things he cannot fix. 

“Point me at your larder. I am sure I can cook us both something palatable.” 

And, just like that, he is in. 

*****

So Frank changes his role from manipulative interrogator to overly helpful house guest. He washes up what looks like days, maybe even weeks, of plates, cutlery and pans in the small, dim kitchen. He washes down cooking surfaces caked in flour and what looks like mud. He notes the absence of any kind of alcohol in the fridge, cupboards and larder. He puts away cans of cat food in the larder, then has to take everything out, check the labels and reorganise the shelves because he finds cat and human food mixed up in a way he just can’t tolerate. 

By the time he starts making a simple dish of pasta, chopped tomatoes and mushrooms, the kitchen is significantly more ordered than when he arrived. 

He has just set out two bowls of pasta and fresh coffee on the battered but newly scrubbed-down with bleach wooden kitchen table when Gerard returns from fixing the cat shelter. 

Gerard looks at Frank curiously and screws up his nose. 

“You cleaned up.” 

“I can’t cook in a mess.” 

“It wasn’t that bad.” 

“It was insanitary. I don’t understand why you don’t have food poisoning.” 

Gerard chuckles and Frank sighs. 

“Look. Mr I … E...” 

“Frank. Call me Frank.” 

Gerard smiles just a little. 

“Look, Frank. I know you came here to do a job and the job means you are rightfully suspicious of me. But if you have to stay it makes no sense to keep that up the whole time. It’s exhausting for me and I am sure it is for you.” 

“I see that,” Frank says noncommittally. 

“Please Frank. Just relax. You don’t have to do all this.” Gerard waves generally at his unusually tidy kitchen. 

“Ok.” Frank relaxes his shoulders for show and files Gerard’s discomfort with both formality and cleanliness away for examination later. He will tone down the helpful to see what else this will make Gerard reveal but he will not stop watching him for a second. 

As they settle to eat, Gerard asks “have you been this way before?” 

Ok. Polite social chit-chat. Not Frank’s strength but he’ll try. 

“No. I am usually more comfortable in the city…” 

“I would never have guessed,” Gerard comments and Frank checks for sarcasm. He finds a deep seam of it. 

“What gave it away?”

“Your sneakers are soaked through and you have been too polite to mention it. Please. Take them off - and your socks too - I will dry them out for you.” 

Frank slips off his sneakers and socks under the table and they finish their meal. Then Gerard leads Frank through the cosy house. He shows Frank a small guest room where he places his backpack on a bed covered in colourful blankets. Gerard gets Frank to change into fresh warm clothes, though he has to turn up sleeves and trouser legs for them to fit. He takes Frank’s shoes and socks to dry them by the fire. When Frank has thick dry socks on his feet, Gerard shows him around the cottage properly. 

He introduces Frank to his cats - the black and white one is called Dee and the tabbies are called Mercado and Crowley. Frank raises an eyebrow. 

“Magicians?” 

“I know. I know. It’s a bit fucking pretentious but …” Gerard shrugs. 

From the outside of the house. it looks like there is only one floor and no space in the roof for headroom. Gerard shows Frank the low ceilinged attic hidden neatly in the roof space. Accessed by a narrow wrought iron spiral staircase from the corner of the kitchen, the attic runs the length of the house, with doors between each space for warmth. One end has bare walls and a boarded floor and is full of boxes and old bits of furniture. The other end is Gerard’s art studio. As the day has turned to evening, there is no natural light coming through the windows in the roof. It is clear though that the artist uses the space to draw, paint and sculpt and his subjects are not just the natural landscape of the island. 

There are stacks of canvases propped against the walls, brushes and pencils jammed into pots and filling racks of boxes and crates, stacks of well-used sketchbooks, a couple of easels, clearly angled to catch the light at different times of day. And there is a broad wooden table covered in a fine sheen of clay, with buckets of clay and wash near shelves of ceramic figures. The space smells of damp and the earth. It makes Frank shudder - his mind takes him to the makeshift burial places in woodlands that he regularly visits while he is working. 

Frank recognises the gargoyles he briefly spotted in the artist’s garden. He has made these twisted, demonic figures with round bellies, long fingers, many with erect and distorted penises, glinting eyes and sharp, tiny teeth in clay, painted them in grotesque green, brown and grey and sketched them together in obscene delight in pencils and inks. They are often depicted on the island, amongst rocks, amid the rough grass, on the slate-grey cliffs, climbing from the boiling sea. Either alone and crying ugly tears or in a tangle of bodies, grimly clutching at each other. After a few moments examining the artist’s work, something occurs to Frank and it tells him more than anything he has seen about the artist so far. 

He turns to the artist, who has been watching him carefully, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway. 

“Your subconscious is very loud,” Frank remarks. 

Gerard smiles crookedly. 

“I wondered if you would notice. But I guess that is your job.” 

Frank grunts. 

“Why? Why this?” 

“Because there is beauty in ugliness and imperfection.” 

“An artist’s answer. I want yours.” 

“I … um … I just make what I feel.” 

If that is what Gerard feels about himself, Frank pities him. Because the faces and features of the gargoyles are all the same, in whatever medium. They are all Gerard.

“Ok,” Frank draws out the syllables as long as possible. He wonders whether this insight is for the file marked “guilt” or the file marked “crazy - give up on getting a conviction.” He leaves it on the undecided pile for the moment. 

Gerard shows him the rest of the house which is all as to be expected from a middle aged man living alone and in isolation. With fresh coffee in hand, Gerard invites Frank to sit with him in the cosy living room. There is no TV there, just a wood burning stove with a plentifully supplied log store, a couple of cosy sofas with blankets where the two tabby cats are curled, with no sign of the black and white one, Dee, and a low well-worn, wooden coffee table. There is an old turntable and a large vinyl collection as well as long packed shelves of books and graphic novels. Frank would like to explore Gerard’s collection for further insights but he wonders how much further he can delay his purpose. 

Gerard points to one sofa for Frank to sit down, settles into the other and regards Frank coolly through the coffee steam. One of the tabby cats stretches and walks over to Gerard and he scratches its neck absentmindedly. 

“I assume you are itching to ask me the questions you want answered.” 

Frank smiles slowly. If Gerard is getting impatient to talk that suits him perfectly. He has already learned a huge amount about the man that he is certain the artist didn’t want him to. He wants to keep him uncomfortably anticipating the interrogation for as long as possible, in case there is anything else for him to learn this way. 

“I can wait. You said yourself I have nowhere else to go. Tell me more about yourself.”

“Like what?” Gerard says impatiently. 

“How did you come to live here?” 

Gerard smirks. “You are asking me about your case.” 

Frank shrugs. Gerard is not easily fooled. “So sue me.” 

Gerard snorts a tiny laugh. “Ok. Let’s stop dancing around this. I came here to escape because fifteen years ago something really shitty happened and eventually I moved here to get away from all the hassle I had back home about it. Was that what you were after?”

“Mr Way, please stop fucking around.” 

“Sorry. That was kinda true though. I am here because I am sick of the lies being told about me and I needed to be somewhere else. I am also living here because I like the solitude, the island is beautiful with amazing light and is peaceful enough for me to concentrate on my work without distractions. Unless cops with fascinating eyes and smiles turn up to rake over all that shit again.”

Frank catches the man’s eyes and scowls. Flirting is the last thing he needs right now. 

“Oh. I see. Anti-gay or anti-me?” Gerard asks, challenging. 

“Neither. Just working. Back the fuck up and answer the question.” 

Frank wants to shut that shit down. Flirting is a tactic as much as anything else and there is no space for his investigation to be derailed. 

Gerard sighs. 

“Tell me the real question.” 

The loud boom of wind buffeting the tiny cottage distracts them both for a moment. Rain lashes the tiny windows and Frank is grateful that the artist is tolerating him staying, no matter how reluctantly. 

“Alright. Three weeks ago the body of a 19 year old man was found in a shallow grave on the edge of woodland two miles from your family home. Forensics established the body had been buried for approximately 15 years. Objects found on and near the body suggest a connection either to you or your brother, Michael-“ 

“Mikey.” Gerard interrupts. 

“-Michael James Way.” Frank insists. “Your brother, as I am sure you are aware, was convicted and imprisoned soon after for drug dealing, theft and inciting prostitution. I am not at liberty to inform you what the objects found on the body were.” 

Gerard is silent for a moment. Even though Frank is certain they both knew what was coming, he is surprised to see what he suspects is genuine sadness on the man’s face. His eyes are dull and Frank almost expects to see tears. 

“William,” Gerard says softly. 

“Yes. The body has been identified by dental records as that of William Peter Strange. As the witness statement you gave at the time records, you and your brother were the last to see him alive. I would like to go over your statement again to confirm what occurred the last time you met.” 

Frank is staring at Gerard the whole time he is speaking. He wants to map Gerard’s exact reaction. He reads the soft sadness shift into something more agonised then an anger that Frank definitely wants to know more about and then come to rest in a weary resignation. Interesting. 

“Tell me about William.”


	3. It Was Really Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a Smiths reference. Please note I cannot fucking stand Morrissey and do not understand why people, irl Frank included, have any time for him.  
> Rant over.  
> On with the story.

_They only stopped running when they were sure the sleazy guy couldn’t be following them anymore. Down an alley, they paused, chests heaving._

_“Will, are you ok, man?” Mikey gasped._

_“Only just. That asshole nearly got me.”_

_“What did you get?”_

_Will dug in the pocket of his tattered hoodie and pulled out a wallet and a phone. He gave the phone to Mikey and opened the wallet. He pulled out a_ _wedge of cash and a few bank cards._

_Gerard grinned and laughed._

_“We’re going out tonight! That fucker deserves to foot the fucking bill!”_

_The three of them hugged._

_“Are you really ok, Will?” Mikey asked again, worried._

_“It’s ok. Honestly. I’ve been doing this a while. I know the risk I’m taking. This should be enough to keep us high for a_ _while without needing to work, right?”_

_Mikey hugs Will, slaps him on the back, while Gerard watches them, smiling warmly._

_“Let’s go.”_

_They leave the alley swiftly, checking carefully in case they are still being followed._

*****

“Will was Mikey’s friend first. They met in a club they both worked in and were close friends from the start. Will didn’t have anyone else in the city - he had left home because his family were religious homophobic pieces of shit - and he and Mikey ended up sharing a place. I was in art school and used to hang out with them. Will was … ah fuck.”

Gerard stops and wipes his eyes.

Frank waits.

“Ah, y’see … uh ... I never got used to speaking about Will in the past tense. With him never being found I always thought there was a chance he might … uh. Um, y’know, still be alive. Fuck. He’s really gone, isn’t he?”

Tears begin to roll down the man’s face. Frank finds it hard to imagine the tears aren’t genuine grief, but he had been fooled by the artist’s naivety earlier so he refuses to fully believe this show of emotion now. Frank waits to see where the man will go next.

“Fuck.” Gerard sniffs and sighs. “Ok. Right. Uh. So I was telling you about Will. Um. Fuck. He was just this really decent guy. Fiercely loyal to his friends. Wouldn’t tolerate bullies but real kind. Protective, when he needed to be. He saw off more than one of my asshole boyfriends at the time. And really creative and talented too. He wrote poetry, not pretty, just truthful. He should have been a famous writer. Ah, fuck.”

Gerard was overwhelmed with sobs again and Frank wondered if he should try on being sympathetic this time.

“Take your time, Gerard. There’s no rush,” Frank said softly. Gerard smiled at the tone.

Frank wondered sometimes if the job had made him a psychopath, considering how consciously he could manipulate people. He knew what to say, he just didn’t feel it. Of course, it was probably not just the job that had done that. He had enough shit in his past and ways to deaden the present that made cutting himself off from other people’s pain easy.

Gerard takes a deep breath and smoothes the cat curled in his lap.

“Thanks Frank. Mikey tells me I cry too easily. I don’t know. Sometimes it helps when things are shit, y’know?”

Frank doesn’t know so he stays quiet.

“So Will got into some shit, pissed off the wrong people. Stood up for himself and his friends when it would have been better to shut up. There was so much trouble he and Mikey had to leave their place. I was just finishing art school, had my head down so I couldn’t help them. Didn’t even know what was going on until it was too late. By that time Will and Mikey were on the streets.”

“Were they together?” Frank queried.

“Oh. You mean ...? Kinda. Not really. They were super close but what with working the streets it was hard, I think. They definitely looked out for each other. Mikey used to say Will was his cell mate.” Gerard’s mouth turns down, a sad flicker of loss crossing his face.

“And then?” Frank prompts. It looked like Gerard was going to get lost in his thoughts so he tries to bring him back to their conversation.

“Well, I graduated. I tried to get work as an artist, tried internships and basic jobs at comics and animation firms but no-one wanted my work, didn’t like my style. Whatever. Then I got evicted because I couldn’t make rent, my parents couldn’t bail me out so I joined Mikey and Will.”

“You? Worked the streets?”

“Don’t let this soft, middle aged exterior fool you. I was a bitch.” Frank is prepared to see there might be steel in the artist’s eyes beyond the naivety. He wonders how he can be both these people and hold his feelings so close to the surface without breaking.

“Really? I don’t see that.” Frank tries pushing at the artist’s evidently fragile ego.

“Mikey, Will and I turned tricks, stole from stores, dealt drugs and we did it as a team. We looked out for each other and made sure we all survived. It fucking worked. Don’t give me that shit.”

Frank smirks unkindly.

“It worked? Really? Mikey’s in prison, you’re hiding on an island in the arse end of nowhere and Will is dead. How exactly does that mean that worked? I can’t exactly see a success story here.”

“Fuck you,” Gerard breathes. He looks at Frank with utter hatred. Frank is delighted. He wants to see what anger looks like on Gerard, wants to push him until he breaks. And who would have guessed his breaking point was the relationship between the three of them. It makes Frank wonder. There’s an idea there that he stores for testing later.

Frank shrugs. “I am just saying what I see.”

“Well, you’re fifteen years too late to see anything clearly so you can keep your fucking smart remarks to yourself, cop.” He spits the last word out with utter contempt.

“So tell me what it was like. Help me understand.” Frank goes for conciliatory, tries to make himself look like an ally. It’s an old ploy and he is not sure Gerard will fall for it.

“Stop it with your nice cop bullshit.”

Frank sighs. He decides getting Gerard’s back up was not the right way to go to get him to open up so he tries an easy diversion.

“Look. Gerard. I’m exhausted. Getting here was a nightmare. Could we get some sleep and then we can talk about the last time you saw Will tomorrow?”

Gerard huffs and exhales. “I guess. I mean I don’t want to draw this out any longer than necessary. I could use a rest but you could try not being an asshole.”

“I can’t promise that.”

*****

After sneaking out into the stormy night for a smoke and a long welcome and warming shower afterwards, Frank settles into bed with a book. He found a book of MR James classic English ghost stories in the artist’s comprehensive library of horror, sci-fi and fantasy novels and comic books. The stories are odd, old fashioned and strangely creepy. Frank would rather the stormwinds weren’t still whistling around the cottage, rattling the windows and that he didn’t feel so isolated. But it’s hard not to when he’s so far from home and on his own on an island with a man under suspicion of murder. He would prefer to be in a bar getting drunk or in his apartment getting drunk or … whatever. You get the idea.

He hops out of bed and rummages through his backpack. He finds a pot of pills and takes out two. He takes them to the glass of water on the bedside table, then pauses and goes back for another pill. He knocks them back, turns off the lamp and settles down to sleep. After a couple of minutes, he turns and resettles himself. Then turns again, shifts the pillows and sighs. The wind and rain continue to batter the tiny low bedroom window.

A couple of moments later he hears a wailing sound, a different pitch to the wind - it sounds like a puppy in distress. It takes him a few moments to register that he has seen no dogs on the island. He slides out of bed, pulls on a warm hoodie and carefully opens the bedroom door so that it does not make a sound.

He checks the living room. The three cats are asleep quietly in a heap on the couch. The noise seems to be coming from the other end of the house. Frank pads barefoot slowly across the wooden floor and colourful, threadbare rugs. The sound comes and goes. Sometimes sobbing and sometimes a wail pierces the sounds of the stormy wind that buffets the ancient cottage.

He realises the sound is coming from Gerard’s room and, as he inches closer, his tread causes the door to slowly ease open a little. He can just make out the silhouette of the man on his bed. The artist is on his side facing away from the door, shaking and sobbing.

Frank is just about to go back to his room, knowing as much as he needs to of the emotional state of the man, when he notices something. The artist is not just shaking. His arm is shifting and his hips are slowly rolling. His sobs are interspersed with moans of, well, Frank would hesitate to call it pleasure. It sounds more like someone is torturing the man, forcing him to wring out unwanted sensations from his body. It is ugly and intimate to watch and Frank cannot look away.

There is, somewhere in the pit of Frank’s stomach, a ball of guilt and shame at intruding on such a vulnerable moment. But stronger in him is an intense curiosity and a shameful arousal at the man’s pained self pleasure. He cannot look away as Gerard pushes his hips helplessly into what Frank imagines is the tight ring of his fist. And he forces himself to witness Gerard’s tearful gulping moans.

Frank shifts his hips uncomfortably in his pyjama pants. He does not like to think that the agony obvious in the artist’s moans turns him on as much as it evidently does. But this is really not what he wants or needs right now. So he dampens whatever thoughts that might be connecting to the man’s teary moans.

Yet he does not choose to return to his bed. He continues to watch, to listen, as Gerard grunts and sobs and sniffles his way to a pathetically tearful orgasm. And he doesn’t even leave when Gerard mutters “pathetic, worthless” to himself as he shifts to get comfortable to sleep. Only when the artist’s breath deepens to a light snore does Frank pad slowly back to his room.

He settles to a dreamless, restless sleep.


	4. Kill All Your Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard shows Frank around the island and the interrogation continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a much longer chapter than previous ones now that the scene has been set and the characters have got to know each other.  
> This time you’ll find out much more about Gerard’s past and see Frank relax a little.  
> Chapter title from Kill All Your Friends by My Chemical Romance

The day Frank wakes to is an utter contrast to the night before. There is bright sunlight streaming through the gap between the poorly fitting curtains and the window. All he can hear is birdsong. If he weren’t such a cynical fuck he might find the change in weather heartwarming and optimistic. Instead he squints at the brightness and heads to the cottage’s tiny bathroom for a piss and a wash.

Gerard is making toast and coffee when he arrives in the kitchen. The three cats are noisily purring and eating.

“The storm has passed,” he says cheerily.

“Has it?” Frank grunts.

Gerard laughs at him, brash and unapologetic.

“Are you going to keep that cynical cop act going the whole time you’re here? It must get tiring,” Gerard’s eyes sparkle with sarcasm and Frank sighs.

“Whatever. This for me?” He dismisses the man’s comment by nodding towards the second cup of coffee and plate of toast. Gerard gestures with his hand for Frank to take them. Frank adds sugar to his coffee and butter and marmalade to his toast and starts eating.

“Thanks. So what do you do all day here?” he asks between mouthfuls.

Gerard shrugs. “Work on commissions mostly. I am also kinda the unofficial island warden after the old guy left. That means I also have to check on the island wildlife, look out for damage to the island infrastructure like the road, the harbour and the cliffs. And maintain this house. Why? You want to join me?”

Frank nods, chewing his toast thoughtfully.

“Sure. If you need me to help out with anything while I’m here. You said yourself you don’t often get visitors. There must be things you need a second pair of hands for.” Frank surprises himself with that offer. Maybe what he witnessed last night in the dark softened him a little to the guy. Or not. Maybe he just doesn’t like being idle and the guy looks like he is not quite the rugged type needed for a wild place like this.

Gerard raises his eyebrows, looking startled at such a reasonable, even thoughtful, offer coming from Frank.

“Sure. There are a few things needed and I won’t know until I check what damage the storm left so I am sure I am going to need to take you up on that offer.”

“Ok. Let me get ready.” Frank brushes the toast crumbs off his hands, drinks the last of his coffee then rinses the cup and plate in the sink before heading to his room to change. He is aware of Gerard watching him, curiously.

“Good,” he thinks. Best keep the guy on his toes for what he needs to do.

*****

Gerard quietly hands Frank the binoculars. Frank squints, trying to see what Gerard is describing.

“Just beyond the first set of rocks. There’s a flatter one …”

“Uh huh.”

“Can you see that splash of almost white?”

“Not really … no … yeah, shit. Fuck. That’s cute!” Frank grins and peers intently into the binoculars. “I‘ve never seen a seal pup before. Are they always white?”

“Yeah. They turn grey as they mature but they start out like that,” Gerard explains. “Keep looking. There were three pups in that family last time I was here. It’s coming to the end of pupping season but there is still a chance there will be more.”

So Frank hunts for more pups and eventually counts four small white seals being fed fish by the larger grey seals that are sliding into the sea then waddling back to their young.

Frank is fascinated. His usual life never brings him close to wildlife, other than pigeons and rats. The family of seals Gerard showed him on the rocks of the sheltered south of the island are lithe swimmers and comical wrigglers on land. Frank is honestly charmed. After seeing gulls fishing off the cliffs, nesting birds and tiny voles scuttling amongst the rocks, Frank feels a little overwhelmed by his first natural history lesson.

On their tour of the island they found it is mostly undamaged by the storm. There was a minor rockfall near the harbour cliff steps that they spent an hour clearing and a tile needs replacing on the cottage roof. Otherwise, the island is pretty much intact.

So Gerard took his houseguest to visit the seals.

“And Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“Cute was not a word I was expecting to hear from you,” Gerard says wryly.

“Fuck off,” Frank says petulantly, then he giggles.

“There you are. I knew there was a sense of humour hiding deep in there somewhere.”

Frank smiles. “Sure. Just not when I’m working.”

“So you’re off duty?”

“Right now, maybe.” Frank is only partly lying this time. Relaxing himself will do no harm in getting Gerard to open up more. And his morning on the island has been surprisingly good fun for a city boy with no interest in wildlife.

“Can I ask you something?”

“That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

Frank scowls. “Not about the case.”

“Ok. Sorry. What do you want to know?”

“Why is the island called Unig? What does that mean?”

Gerard smiles. “It’s well named. It’s Welsh for lonely.”

Frank nods and is quiet for a while, thinking about how the world likes to mock him at every available opportunity.

Gerard breaks the silence eventually. “Fancy some lunch?”

“Please. I am not used to all this outdoors shit.”

So they stroll back towards the cottage, relaxed in the vivid sunshine and unusually gentle breeze. They pick their way along the cliff path, around rocks, treading on soft peaty grass and sticky-wet mud, Gerard pointing out interesting things about the scenery.

Then Gerard grabs Frank’s arm and tugs.

“Hang on. This way.”

He climbs up a small slope beside the path and disappears. Frank clambers after him, wishing, not for the first time that day, that he had listened to Ray’s advice and bought walking boots. His sneakers really aren’t suited to rocks and mud. When he gets to the top of the slope he sees Gerard standing beside a large standing stone. He is reaching out to touch the yellow-green lichen that peppers its surface.

Frank moves closer and realises he is surrounded by these stones. They are arranged around him in a pattern that he has no way of understanding. Some of them stand tall, some lean on each other like drunken friends and some are flat on the ground. There is no way of knowing what they are intended to look like. He guesses that maybe if he had been here thousand of years ago he might have had more chance of making sense of it all. There is even a large flat grey slab perched on the delicate tips of three other large stones like an unexpectedly successful child’s first attempt at engineering.

And he feels strangely calm. Like a blanket of warmth has been dropped on him but it is hyper real, like all the colours have been turned up. He is just more … aware. And he can hear something. Not voices exactly, just something on the edge of perception. Something familiar but he just can’t quite make it out.

He jumps. Gerard had rested his hand on his shoulder.

“You ok? You look - like you don’t know where you are.”

Frank huffs out a laugh.

“I have never been anywhere like this before. It’s … I mean, I have seen pictures of places like Stonehenge but I had no idea it would feel like …”

Gerard smiles. “There is an interesting feeling in places like this. I can’t explain it. I don’t think it is something you do consciously. It’s just an atmosphere.”

Frank nods. He has no desire to get into any mystical bullshit right now. It has just surprised him how easily the atmosphere of a place like this can affect him. He’s not used to being out of control of his feelings like this and it is unsettling.

“Do you know how long this has been here?”

“Not really. Definitely thousands of years. There’s signs of inhabitants on the island going way back. Y’know ruined houses, signs of attempts at agriculture, burial places, that go back that far but no-one knows exactly how long or what this was here for.”

“Place like this must have stories?”

“Sure. There are ghost stories about Unig and this place in particular. A murdered man, a large dog with glowing red eyes, a woman in grey - all the classics.”

“You ever seen anything?”

“Kinda. Hey, follow me.”

Gerard leads Frank towards a small slope, surrounded by tall grey-green standing stones. Frank realises that the series of upright stone slabs are actually the front of a long burial mound. Gerard climbs a small set of steps up the side of the mound and Frank follows. From the top there is a rectangular strip of grass edged with stone, raised from the land around it. Gerard continues down stone steps the other side then ducks behind one of the upright stones. Frank follows and he is amazed to find himself in a series of small stone chambers. They smell of damp with a faint scent of incense and wax.

Frank hears a clicking sound and light flickers in the end chamber. He follows the dim glow to find Gerard has lit a few tea lights. There are cracks in the walls filled with dried flowers, old candles, scraps of paper, tiny clay and glass figures, broken plastic dolls. Frank shivers. It’s colder here than above ground and the air feels dense. Less peaceful than among the stones outside. More like something’s waiting.

Frank realises his chest is heaving, like he can’t quite catch his breath. And when he looks at Gerard he sees he is staring back wide eyed, pupils as black as the deepest well, reflections from the candles making him look aflame from within. Frank feels overwhelmed, panicked. He stumbles out of the chamber into the bright sunshine of the day. He gulps in air, his head spinning and buzzing.

Gerard briefly touches his back.

“You ok, Frank?”

Frank nods. He hasn’t quite regained his words yet.

“Look let’s get back to the house. I need to eat.”

Gerard walks away briskly, conversation over, following the permanent plume of woodsmoke from the cottage chimney home. Once again, Frank is intrigued more by what he doesn’t say than what he does.

*****

Back at the cottage, Frank makes a lentil curry for their lunch while Gerard fixes the roof tile. When the curry is ready, Frank sits at the kitchen table, fork in hand, and looks expectantly at Gerard.

“That’s enough putting this off. We have a lot to talk about.”

“When I last saw William?”

“Yeah. Let’s leave the ghost stories to another day.”

“Ok,” Gerard sighs.

“Tell about the last time you saw William,” says Frank. He starts eating his lentil curry, consciously giving Gerard space to speak.

“Firstly, you need to understand, Mikey, Will and I were brothers. We looked out for each other. I would never have done anything to hurt either of them.”

“Gerard,” Frank says, warily.

“I know, I know. Answer the question.”

Frank grunts.

“Right. So we all went to this club. We had money that night because Will had lifted a wallet from one of his really sleazy clients. We all knew the guy was going to get mad about it but it didn’t matter to us in the moment. We needed to have some fun.”

*****

_Gerard swung between the grooving mass of people on the dance floor with drinks for them all held high. Will and Mikey were dancing close, arms draped across each other’s shoulders, eyes closed, hips sliding sinuously together. Gerard sighs. He knows they have been basically together recently and is happy they have each other but with everything happening recently he worries that Will has dragged Mikey in too deep. And he … just wants to protect his kid brother._

_So he taps his brother on the arm and they break apart to knock back drinks. They make eye contact. Gerard suggests with hand and head gestures that they could find a booth where they can rest and talk for a while. They are just settling in when a broad, muscular figure appears and jabs Will in the chest._

_“Where’s my money, asshole?”_

_“Fuck off, Jeff,” Will spits._

_Jeff grabs Will by his upper arms and drags him out of the booth. The man pulls Will up so his feet are dangling helplessly._

_“Say that again, motherfucker, and you are dead. I am so sick of you fucking me around. You are a worthless piece of shit. Now where is my money?”_

_Will stares at Jeff, then deliberately and calmly spits in his eye. Gerard’s stomach clenches. He really does not want to see what the guy does next. He knows he has put people who crossed him in hospital before._

_Jeff shakes Will then drops him in a crumpled heap on the dancefloor. Then he kicks at him. Mikey climbs on the table, launches himself at the man but Jeff just brushes him away and carries on kicking. Will curls himself against blows to his back and neck. Gerard stands, staring, frozen, useless. Eventually the door staff arrive and pull Jeff off Will. They insist that the four of them leave the club with silently furious Will being supported to walk by Gerard and Mikey._

_They are left on the sidewalk outside the club with Jeff. He stares coldly at Will._

_“You are fucking dead,” Jeff spits at Will._

_“Leave him alone,” Mikey says coldly and Jeff laughs, low and menacing. “You want a piece too? You look like a stiff breeze would be a fucking challenge.”_

_“Shut it,” Gerard says, tightlipped._

_Jeff laughs. “Seriously, the three of you are pathetic. There’s no way you could stop me.”_

_“Don’t fucking underestimate me,” Will bites out._

_Will shrugs off Mikey’s help and lurches forward. Before Gerard can really comprehend it, Will and Jeff are locked in a struggle. The sound of punches, grunts and sickening blows fill the still night air. Will manages to knock Jeff onto his back but he is back on his feet quicker than Gerard expects. Jeff is stronger and taller than Will but Will is more agile and quick._

_Will sprints away from Jeff’s grasp but he catches up and knocks him spiralling into a nearby alleyway. Mikey and Gerard follow to see Jeff pushing Will into a wall. He punches the younger man’s face repeatedly, blood pouring from his eye and his skull crunches sharply against the brick wall. Gerard is frozen but Mikey jabs him in the stomach._

_“Help him. He’s going to fucking kill him,” Mikey yells, shaking Gerard awake._

_They both launch themselves at the two fighting men. The struggle that follows is confusing. There are fists and knees and feet punching and kicking and grunts until the confusion settles and all Gerard can see is Will._

_He is lying, neck at a strange angle, blood pouring from his ears and eye sockets with Mikey over him trying to give him CPR. And Jeff’s laugh as he walks away echoes in his head for hours afterwards._

*****

“That’s an interesting story, Gerard. Are you saying you don’t know who killed him?”

“I … yes. It was all so confusing. There was so much happening and then suddenly he was on the ground and still. I think Jeff might have knocked his head onto the corner of a dumpster but I might have imagined that since then. I was pretty wasted. We all were.”

Gerard goes silent, his eyes wide.

“Did you call an ambulance for Will?” Frank inquires.

“You know I didn’t. We couldn’t. Will would have been arrested with all the shit we had been up to. Fuck it, we would all have been arrested.”

“Explain what you did with the body, Gerard.” Frank says quietly.

Gerard sighs. He looks tired. His hands rub his face and Frank wonders if he smokes because his fingers flutter as if independently seeking out the anchoring effect of holding a cigarette.

“Mikey said we had to put it somewhere it would be found quite quickly after we left it. He didn’t want Will to be alone for too long.”

“Did that seem odd to you? It sounds like he had a plan worked out.”

“No. He was distraught. I was useless. I had no idea. I just stood there. He was just trying to do the best he could. He got a friend to lend him a car and we took Will to this place on the edge of the city. We found a hole for him just behind a hedge by a backroad. I remember it was a very hard frost that night so the ground was frozen. But there was work being done on the road so we used a hole that had already been dug and covered him with leaves. Once we had laid him in there, the ice looked magical. There was a full moon and it made the ice crystals shine. Will looked peaceful, like a statue. I …”

Gerard looks like he is miles away, lost in the memory of that night. Frank puts his hand gently on Gerard’s and he smiles gratefully. It is only later that Frank remembers what he did and wonders why he did something so out of character.

“Gerard. Gerard.”

“What?”

“You spaced out there for a moment.”

“Yeah. It’s just … remembering that night really hurts, y’know.”

“So why did you tell me yesterday that you didn’t know Will was dead?” Frank presses.

Gerard glances sharply at him. The man is silent for a moment, clearly considering how to respond to being caught out.

“It has been so long since I have thought about him. When you asked it felt like losing him again. I have never really had the chance to grieve him properly because I wasn’t meant to know he was dead. My tears yesterday were real. I had almost convinced myself in fifteen years that he wasn’t actually dead. I loved him as a brother and I miss him. Everything went to shit after he died and I lost everything. So don’t try to tell me my grief is false or an act because you don’t know shit.”

Frank is unusually shocked. Not because Gerard didn’t try to divert attention from his previous response. He has learned enough about the man to know he can surprise him. He is knocked off-course because he wants to believe what Gerard is telling him. Call Frank a psychopath if you want but he does understand emotions enough to know when people are faking. And he is certain that Gerard just isn’t.

“Ok. You need to take a break?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says quietly and gets up to make them another coffee.

Frank watches him thoughtfully. He found the man’s story convincing, sad even. He finds himself torn. It is rare that he wants to believe a suspect’s story so much as he wants to believe Gerard’s but knowing what he does he can’t leave it there. Because there is definitely truth here but there are lies as well. And he won’t get beyond the man’s lies without a change in approach.

Because he knows that the door staff say there was no fourth man ejected from the club that night. And it was Gerard that attacked Will first and Mikey that tried to stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh cliffhanger!  
> What do you think?  
> Did Gerard do it?


	5. It Was The Roar Of The Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank takes some time to think and there is an unexpected nighttime visitor. Things get a little heated.
> 
> That was a smut warning if you didn’t catch that or would prefer to skip.
> 
> Title from Disenchanted by My Chemical Romance

Gerard retreated to his studio to work after lunch. Frank doesn’t question that he needs to retreat from their conversation. He needs to think too.

So Frank goes for a walk. He borrows thick socks and boots from a cupboard and the binoculars from the window ledge in the kitchen. The cats rub around his legs as he pulls his coat on and get under his feet as he heads out the door. They follow him the first few metres along the road before disappearing to hunt among the grass and rocks. He decides he wants to go back to the standing stones. He’s not sure why but maybe it’s something to do with wanting to think and feel peaceful.

After strolling a while on the path Gerard had brought him on earlier that morning, Frank sees a low, grey rounded wall off the path a little. He scrambles across rough grass to reach it. There are outer and inner circular walls, their strength marked by the absence of breaks other than the neat gaps of doorways. He sits on a wall of the closest ruined dwelling to a clear view of the mainland. It is cloudier than earlier and shards of brightness strike the dark water as he smokes and thinks.

He feels so far from his home, his job, his previous life here. It’s like there was a place in him that recognises this life as something he knows, maybe has known. Unig, this island. It knows it is lonely but it does not make him feel as lonely as it could. He realises Gerard isn’t just escaping here - the place feels like somewhere he could breathe and imagine being someone else. Someone who didn’t make a mistake that cost a colleague their health, someone who didn’t alienate people by refusing to admit they needed help. Someone who pushed aside emotion in the private life like they had learned to in their job until everyone who cared for him had walked away. And only the antidepressants kept him from feeling suicidal. Maybe Gerard was onto something.

Pity it looked like he was probably guilty of murder and definitely guilty of being an accessory after the fact and unlawful burial. He had admitted as much and this corroborated the story that Mikey had told him when he had questioned him in prison. They had both been unclear about who exactly had struck the fatal blow, even though they had both eventually pointed blame at Jeff. That suggested collusion to Frank. He doesn’t believe they had both just been a bit muddled. He wondered if they had decided that confusion was their best tactic to avoid blame laying on either of them. This sounded like a very flimsy plan but very hard to clarify for a jury. Frank shrugged. Not entirely a stupid idea but definitely risky. Enough doubt to make getting a conviction difficult but not impossible. Certainly enough to arrest and properly question.

And Frank wonders what he is going to do next. He has Gerard’s statement. He could pick at his story a little more but he doesn’t really need to. His boat to the mainland arrives the following day. He could contact Brian on Gerard’s shortwave radio and get him to pick him up today. He could stay with Ray for the night at the police house and be on his way home the following morning. Gerard could be arrested for questioning and in custody in the city by the end of the week.

But …

He just doesn’t want to.

*****

Frank has just finished making them both a casserole when Gerard comes down from the attic and washes his hands of the paint he has been working with all afternoon. Gerard is unusually silent. Frank glances at him and sees his face is blank, cold even. Not really how he has been with him before

“You ok?” Frank asks, before he can stop himself.

“Yes,” Gerard replies.

Frank puts out their food and waits for Gerard’s usual chatter to start and there’s … nothing. And now he’s wondering why he cares. The guy is a suspect and he is a cop. End of story.

They eat in silence, only broken by the purr of the cat that jumped onto Gerard’s lap for a tickle.

Gerard finishes his meal and heads back into the attic studio without a word. He stays there for the whole evening and Frank is left confused and unsettled. He washes up, tidies the kitchen and finds a book to read from Gerard’s vast collection. His choice of a ghost story set on a deserted Arctic island during the long dark winter does his nerves no good, making him agitated and restless in his sleep when he eventually retires to bed.

Once again, a sound wakes him in the deep, dark silence of the island night.

This time it is the quiet tread of feet in his room. He is instantly awake and wary. Why is his gun in the closet, not under his pillow? Why was he not more careful of a man he knows to be a possible murderer? And who knows he knows. He has been a fucking idiot and it’s all because of the atmosphere of the place and, if he’s being honest, the character of the man. It would just serve him right if it was this relaxation and unnecessary _caring_ that caused his own death.

A hand reaches out and touches Frank’s face and he hitches in a breath. Holds it. Waits to see what the man will do.

And he …

Just …

Gently slides it down Frank’s cheek.

And under his jaw. Trails his fingers across his cheek. Rubs his thumb against Frank’s lips.

Then Frank feels his warm breath on his other cheek.

And then the most delicate of kisses. Feather soft.

“Gerard,” he breathes.

“Shhh.”

“I …”

“Shhh.”

And Frank allows him to kiss him again, this time on the mouth, deeper and deeper. Later, he could not say why. But now it feels right and brave to reach out and touch the man’s tangled mop of hair. To dig his fingers into his soft, bare shoulders. To slide his tongue into the man’s warm, wet mouth and explore his tongue and teeth, lazily lick together, pull out and bite at his lip. To gently tug at the waistband of his pants until they are lying side by side on Frank’s bed, kissing like there is no other way to fill their lungs with air.

Frank curls his arm around the man’s waist and pulls him close. The blankets between them become uncomfortably tight but neither seem inclined to stop exploring each other’s mouths. Until Gerard lets go and stands up. Frank thinks he’s going to leave as suddenly as he arrived but he hauls the blankets off the bed, shimmies his pyjama pants off his hips and climbs back naked onto the bed beside Frank.

He looks carefully into Frank’s startled eyes.

“I think you need this.”

“I shouldn’t. I …”

“Say you don’t want it and I will stop.”

“I …”

Gerard waits, patient like either of Frank’s possible answers are what he wants. Frank considers saying stop, pushing Gerard away. Slamming the door on his feelings like he has learned to. Being the cop on duty. But he feels - something. More than something. He touches Gerard’s face.

“I need this. I need you,” Frank admits.

And something breaks deep inside him. Gerard smiles, lopsided, open and warm in the dim light from the open door. And Frank just wants - wants to hold him, wants to touch and be touched. And the longing is so powerful, he sobs. Just one deep ragged inhale that makes his body shudder. It has been so long since anyone touched him with any kind of affection beyond simple lust. It is so strange to him to feel anything.

Frank reaches out to Gerard and they meet - lips to lips, chest to chest, then tangled knees and feet. And Frank’s hands explore Gerard’s bare back and ass. He digs his fingers into the soft, pliable flesh and makes Gerard gasp openmouthed and then giggle.

Frank opens an eye.

“I hope you’re not laughing at me.”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then can I …?” He stops, embarrassed, unsure if he can ask.

“What Frank? What do you want to do?”

“Can I taste you?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Please.”

The sound of asking and being given permission is delicious to Frank. He is not used to sex being like this. He has never really been in a relationship. Sex has only ever been functional for him - bodies (of whatever kind, he’s not fussy) and needs (simply fulfilled, often without verbalising what he wants). He knows where to go to get what he needs and that’s it. But this. This is like the artist has actually seen him. Broken apart his shell and scooped out whatever is soft and vulnerable inside. And it hurts to feel uncovered, unprotected like this. But it is so good too. Frank vaguely remembers that Gerard used to sell himself for sex. He knows he could protect himself by thinking this could just be work to Gerard. A way to make the detective owe him something. But right now he doesn’t care about that. Frank just wants. He wants so hard it hurts. And the artist is just beautiful.

Frank realises he has just been stroking the man’s face and staring into his eyes. He wonders when he was bewitched by them. Maybe it was in the burial chamber.

“Frank. What do you want to taste?”

Frank feels his face go hot. Frank hasn’t blushed in years. He is suddenly glad they are in semi-darkness.

Rather than replying, he wriggles down the bed a little and gently strokes the man’s soft, bare chest. He brushes a fingertip across his nipple and feels it react, stiffen. He dips his head and licks it experimentally, then feels Gerard relax in his arms. He latches on and sucks, delicately at first then increasingly sharply until Gerard stretches and groans. Then Frank bites, just a little nip really and Gerard moans louder.

“You like it to hurt?” Frank mutters.

“Mmnf. A little,” Gerard responds.

So Frank reaches out a hand and strokes, rolls and pinches the man’s other nipple firmly while sucking and nipping on the one already in his mouth. He feels the man’s muscles stretching and contorting beneath him. His groans are like music, like chords strummed out on a cheap Stratocaster in a smoky room. Frank wants to change key so he pulls on Gerard’s arm, makes him flip and kneel with his head on his flattened palms.

Frank strokes his soft ass and the man shivers a little in the chill darkness. And Frank noses his way carefully down the man’s warm crack until he can feel the delicate softness of his hole. He licks his flat tongue across and hears Gerard sigh. So he licks again but this time he probes firmly with his tongue pointed until the ring of muscle gives a little. He withdraws a tiny bit then pushes in a little further. The infinitely small motions of tongue-fucking make Gerard pant and squeak. Frank can feel him shaking as he tries to control the movement of his hips so he doesn’t lose the intense sensation of this delicate friction. Frank grips the man’s soft, sweet thighs harder and lets drool drip from his mouth as he tastes the earthiness.

Eventually, his jaw aches and he slides his tongue out and leans his forehead on Gerard’s ass cheek, breathing heavily. Gerard lifts his head to look at Frank and smiles. He rearranges them so Frank is lying down and, after a look into Frank’s eyes to check he is ok, pulls off the underwear Frank was sleeping in. Gerard’s eyelashes flicker just a little when he sees just how much of Frank is covered in tattoos. Frank watches as the man licks his palm from the heel to the tip of his long, slim middle finger, his eyelids fluttering closed. Then he slides his warm, slick hand down Frank’s hard, slightly dripping dick and twists just a little. Frank makes a sound he has never known himself make before and realises he is, for the moment, lost.

Then Gerard climbs up to kiss him. He settles in Frank’s lap and rubs his ass on his cock suggestively.

“Do you have any …?” Frank breathes.

Gerard points at the pyjama pants he had left on the chair beside the bed. Frank rifles through the pockets and finds a small bottle of lube and a short strip of condoms.

“Did you assume?”

“I hoped. And I am always safe.”

“You are full of surprises.”

Gerard smiles warmly at that. Frank is a little taken aback. His life doesn’t have much affection in it and this is almost intoxicating. He shakes his head but he is smiling too.

He gives the lube to Gerard and takes a condom out of the packet and rolls it down himself. Gerard pumps a little lube into his hand and smooths it over the condom. He leans forward to kiss Frank - warm and wet.

Then he lines Frank’s cock up and settles himself down, mouth slack, shifting his hips to let gravity allow him to sink until he is firmly in Frank’s lap. Gerard’s cock, hard and flushed red, twitches with the motion. Frank has begun babbling about how good and how beautiful Gerard is and he is bewildered. He never usually speaks during sex, yet he cannot resist whispering “fuck” and “please” as Gerard begins to fuck himself on Frank’s cock. He is overwhelmed with the sensation of Gerard tight and warm sliding around him and he digs his fingers into Gerard’s thighs to get him to grunt in response.

They move together, Frank pushing with his hips into Gerard, an intoxicatingly deep and slow grind. Gerard is curled over, his sweaty hair bumping Frank’s chest as he pants and moans. Frank feels his orgasm shifting deep in his gut so he moves a hand from where it had been gripping the artist’s soft hip, fingers dug in hard enough to bruise. He pulls his damp hand up the man’s erection, finds friction at the head and is eventually rewarded with a cry and the fluttering grip of the man’s orgasm from within. He can feel the warm splatter of the man’s come on his chest and the sensation, the heady scent of desire satiated, tips him over the edge. He does not know how long he shakes and swears his release but Gerard holds him throughout, tells him he is beautiful and perfect and Frank’s cynical heart longs to believe him.

Once the lube and come and sweat and condom have been cleaned away, Gerard rests under Frank’s arm, their legs tangled, the man drawing patterns around the tattoos on his chest.

“I didn’t expect to find these. You keep your creative soul hidden, don’t you?”

Frank doesn’t reply. He isn’t quite sure what to do now. He has just done the most unprofessional thing of his career - he slept with a murder suspect in full knowledge of the evidence for his suspicion. But he also feels connected to the man somehow, like he should always be here embracing the man’s soft shoulders and listening to his chatter. He feels … too many things at once.

“Hey. Frank. Don’t slip away from me. I know you need this.”

“What? The fuck? Yeah, sure I do.”

“No. Well, yeah obviously. But this. You need this.” Gerard hugs him, then traces around the black flame with the word Hope tattooed over his heart. “There is more than just the cynical detective in there.”

“Is there? Maybe you see more, want to see more, than there is.”

Frank turns on his side, away from the artist and all his difficult questions. But he sighs, somewhere approaching contentedly, when Gerard spoons up behind him and draws the covers up over them both, wraps an arm around his waist and they drift quickly into a comfortable sleep.


	6. Things That You Never Ever Told Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.  
> Frank understands a little more, but does that really change anything?
> 
> Chapter title from The Ghost Of You by My Chemical Romance.

The following morning Frank wakes slowly. Warm light seeps in under his eyelids where he is warm, rested, content. It is only as he rolls over that he remembers. There were soft thighs, hot breath, firm touch. But that is gone now. The bed is empty but for him and a curl of tabby cat, probably Mercado because she follows him around the house like she belongs to him. The sun is high which means it is late morning.

Frank showers and dresses quickly then pads quietly to the kitchen. There is fresh coffee and bread ready to be toasted. Everything is clean and fresh like Gerard has actually noticed that a clean kitchen is possible since Frank arrived. The cats in the kitchen have clearly been fed because they show little interest in Frank and there is no sign of Gerard. The house is quiet. Frank checks the time. He has a couple of hours before the boat back to the mainland is due at the harbour.

He packs everything back into his rucksack and shivers as he puts back on his too thin socks and dried out sneakers. He has time to spare before he needs to leave so he wanders the house absentmindedly. He only realises where he is when his hand lands on the handle of the door to Gerard’s studio. He has the tiniest flash of conscience about invading the man’s privacy before opening it and cautiously entering.

His eye is immediately drawn to the huge almost completed canvas on the easel in the centre of the room. Frank realises it must be what Gerard was working on all yesterday afternoon and evening. What happened during the night suddenly makes a whole lot more sense.

He has drawn and partially painted Frank. He appears to be in the burial chamber. He is surrounded by tiny glimpses of flickering light in reddened gloom. And Frank glows, his pulsating heart held in his outstretched hands. His smile is warm but there is an aching sadness in his eyes. Frank is baffled and uncomfortable. He has never seen himself like this. Gerard has drawn beauty, warmth and feeling where Frank only feels cold and cynical. It is unsettling. Frank leaves the attic studio in a rush, startled, like he has been pushed off his axis.

He grabs his backpack, pulls on his coat and leaves for the harbour. Then he dashes back and leaves a note to Gerard thanking him for his hospitality.

All the way along the path back to the harbour he expects to hear Gerard call out his goodbye. The island is not big enough for the man not to see him leave in this bright daylight. But he arrives at the harbour without having seen any sign of the artist. He leans against the cliff face, cigarette coiling smoke into the breeze, and watches the tiny motorboat bounce off the waves then chug noisily alongside the tiny harbour wall.

“Hey Brian!” he calls to the skipper as he loops a rope around a mooring pin.

“Everything ok, Frank?” Brian yells against the sea breeze.

“Yeah. All good.” Frank says, like he thinks it could be true, as he hops onto the boat. He grabs a life jacket and hunches up on one of the seats. He is not looking forward to another boat trip.

Once he is settled and the boat is chugging its gutchurning, rolling path through the waves, he looks back towards the island of Unig as it bobs away into the distance. After a short while, a flash of light catches his eye. There is a tiny figure on the cliff.

Gerard is watching him through binoculars. Frank stares until the figure is too small to make out against the grey sky.

*****

“So what do you think of our island hermit?” says Ray.

“Gerard Way?” Frank asks, swallowing a mouthful of thick vegetable soup.

“Yeah. He’s been a bit of an enigma since he came here. Not surprised to learn he has a shady history,” Ray explains cheerily.

Frank huffs.

“Have to be a bit odd to live out there like that on his own.”

“Yeah,” Ray smiles. “You see his sculptures? Weird guy.”

Frank hums. “You reckon the atmosphere of Unig got to him or was he always like that?”

“I think he was always a bit like that. You want tea?” Ray gets up to make another pot in the police house’s tiny kitchen.

“When he arrived he was looking for work, had no money and was trying to sell his art around town. He got work in the hotel bar but you could see all the booze made him twitchy. Reckon he must have had a drink problem, so he left. Started helping teach art to the kids in the village school. He didn’t seem really comfortable with kids either. A year or so after he arrived, the old island warden left Unig and he took over the cottage. Been settled there at least four years now. Only comes to the mainland to sell his work. Brian drops off any supplies he needs. Otherwise he’s just on the island with his cats and those creepy sculptures. Seems happier there though.”

Ray shrugs, like he doesn’t get why anyone would want to live like that. Frank weirdly wants to defend Gerard, explain what’s beautiful and mystical about the place. But he stops himself, disgusted by the nonsense he has swallowed in the time he was on the island with the artist. The guy has really twisted his detective brain with his soft eyes. It’s like every mile and every minute he gets further away from the artist, from Unig, the weaker the spell gets. Reaching the mainland, spending time with Ray in the relative normality of the police house, has really helped him get his perspective back.

“You reckon he had a drink problem? That explains why he had no alcohol in the place.”

“Yeah. I saw him really anxious some nights when he was working the bar. Getting real sweaty and leaving before his shift was over. Brian, you know him. Does the island boat and runs the Harbour Hotel bar. He used to get so pissed with him. Had to fire him in the end. The guy probably had to escape to the island to get away from temptation. There’s a lot of hard drinkers round here. I reckon it’s something to do with the isolation. You missing beer yourself? I got a few in the fridge if you need one.”

“Nah, I’m good for now. But thanks. You’re making me feel real welcome.”

“No problem, Frank. I like the company.”

That’s Ray all over. Frank sees someone friendly, uncomplicated, generous, honest. So unlike Frank - and Gerard for that matter - it’s enough to make him hysterical. So he washes up his soup bowl and teacup and they go and watch superhero movies and reminisce about bands they were in and how successful they weren’t. And Frank wonders how he came here to this tiny pretty port town, with its pastel painted houses and tiny fishing boat harbour, to find a murderer and unintentionally found a fucking sentimental streak a mile wide.

But whatever happens here, he is going home and Gerard will be arrested for questioning. He has to keep reminding himself that. He has no place getting comfortable here. He is a detective with a job to do. No friendship, beautiful and mysterious landscape, soft thighs, slender fingers or comfortable bed are going to change that. It is who Frank is and all he knows how to be.

As the second movie comes to an end, Ray helps by asking what Frank’s plan is for the case.

“I am going to get a warrant to arrest him. There’s enough inconsistencies in his statement and the others I have to make it worth questioning him under caution.” Frank feels himself slipping into safety. Into a world he knows and understands - of suspects and evidence and helping people to places where they don’t realise they have incriminated themselves. Not that odd world of emotion and atmosphere and art that he encountered on the island and so unsettled him. He can almost feel himself yearning for the sound of rain on city streets, he is so close to home.

“What kinds of inconsistencies?” Ray asks. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me. Confidentiality and that, but it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened here in a long while. Would really help hearing your thinking in case I ever have to investigate something similar. Never had a murder case here, not even one as cold as this.”

“Sure. Ray, grab us a couple of beers and I’ll take you through what I have so far. Would be good to check it out with you. Make sure I haven’t missed anything.”

Twenty minutes later, the police house kitchen table is a makeshift homicide evidence table covered in scraps of paper with Frank’s scratchy writing all over them. He has even drawn pictures - very roughly, Frank is no artist - of the main suspects. The familiarity of this process is comforting to Frank. He settles into his role like a well-worn old coat.

“Ok. So I have explained the victim William Strange and the finding of the body. The suspects are Gerard Arthur Way, Michael James Way and Jeffery Alan Clark. I have spoken to all of them plus witnesses such as the dogwalker who found the body and the door staff at the club.”

“I won’t go into detail about the forensics but the key point for this is that the victim died from a blow to the back of the head. His skull showed significant fracturing. There were other fresh fractures so he had clearly been in a fight before his death but the blow to the head was definitely enough to kill him, according to the pathologist.”

“Forensics found a few things in a leather wallet near the body that had been preserved because of the soil conditions. Among the bills and receipts was a photograph of William, Michael and Gerard with _W I love you XO M_ written on the back. They also found a watch with Gerard’s name engraved on it in the pocket of the remains of the clothes that were found on what was left of the body.”

“Sounds like Mikey gave William the photo. Why would he have Gerard’s watch?”

“Hold that thought. All the witnesses were able to describe the night of the murder in detail. I spoke to Michael in prison and his story corroborates Gerard’s. They both say that Jeffrey Clark attacked William in the club and that they were all kicked out by the door staff then the fight continued into the alley where William was killed. They both confessed to the burial and agreed it was Michael’s idea.”

“What do you reckon to their story? They seem to agree on a lot. Do you think they colluded?” Ray enquires.

“Hard to say. They have had fifteen years to get their stories straight. Even with Michael in prison they had time to get it word for word. Michael was more certain it was Jeffrey. Gerard suggested that it could have been any of the three of them that dealt the fatal blow as he was fucked at the time and that he thought it might have been Jeffrey.”

“So what does Jeffrey say?”

“He denies being there and the door staff backed him up. No video evidence from the club after this time obviously but the two staff on that night agree that they kicked out three, not four, men. Of course, how they all remember after this long is another question.”

“What’s Jeffrey’s alibi?”

“He was with his wife. She died six years ago so we can’t check it.”

“So this is why cold cases are tough, right?”

Frank laughs.

“Yeah. This kind of thing is so easy!”

“So, why are you convinced it was Gerard. I mean you are, aren’t you?”

Ray’s question points at the heart of Frank’s thoughts on the case.

“Because I think Gerard was protecting his brother. He said it to me himself - everything I did was to protect Mikey. I think Gerard was scared William was leading Mikey further into a dangerous business. So he attacked William when he was drunk or whatever and it went too far. I mean, we don’t know what William did. We don’t know if there are grounds for self-defence or manslaughter. I do wonder if the watch was a catalyst. Maybe William stole it and Gerard suspected and that was why the fight started. But he feels guilty. He behaves like a guilty person. It’s in his art and in his life. I mean, look where he lives. He has cut himself off from the world because of this. He doesn’t believe he deserves anything. He’s not a relaxed and sociable person. He may be kind and generous but that doesn’t stop him being a killer. He is escaping from what he did because he feels shame about it.”

Frank does not mention Gerard’s guilt-ridden masturbation or his reaching out to Frank for comfort. There is enough else to not need to tell that part of his story. Frank does feel bad that he is using the artist’s vulnerability against him after he opened his home, and himself, to Frank. He is honest with himself about being a psychopath, feigning feelings he doesn’t have. And he ignores the new twisting in his guts that says that things might be different this time.

“But …” Ray says thoughtfully. “I mean, I trust your instincts and I know you know this job. But …”

“But what? Spit it out.”

“I really don’t want to question your judgment. And I know you are just going to think I am just a naive rural cop,” Ray explains.

“What Ray? It would really help to hear what you think.”

“I don’t think he did it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who do you think is right - Frank or Ray?


	7. Never Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank thinks about what Ray said and realises something. 
> 
> Chapter title from The Ghost Of You by My Chemical Romance

Frank pulls the blankets on the couch over him. He could have taken a room at the hotel for his overnight stay before he goes home to the city but he preferred the idea of staying at the police house with Ray. He doesn’t really like formal places so, even though he is not exactly going to sleep well on a couch, it’s better than a bed in a place that might expect him to be friendly. Not that he’s not friendly with Ray. It’s more that he can relax with Ray and not have to put on an act. 

He curls up, tries to get comfortable. He has a long train journey home tomorrow. And what Ray said earlier is scratching at the inside of his head. He knows that all he has about Gerard are suspicions, not evidence. He knows that he can only arrest the man for questioning but Ray’s insight has knocked his confidence in his reading of the case off course. 

“There’s a couple of things,” Ray had said. 

“Go on. I need to hear if I have missed an angle,” 

“Ok. So first - why are you relying on the evidence of the door staff that Jeffrey wasn’t in the club that night? Could the guy have got to them over the years and made them support his story? You said he had a history of violent crime. It is not far-fetched to think he could have got to them. It could also explain why they remember that night so long ago. Maybe they were paid to remember and paid to remember it his way?” 

“Good point,” Frank said quietly. He had considered this, had to consider this since the Clark guy has quite a record but it just didn’t fit somehow. His usual MO had been to injure, not kill. 

“The other thing was more about Gerard. He just doesn’t seem the type.” 

Frank laughed, loud and incredulous. 

“I know! I know!” Ray exclaimed. “Hear me out. He came here so traumatised. So freaked out by his addiction and whatever had happened to him. It was obvious there was something else. You’ve met him. The man is gentle, an artist. Yes, he feels guilty but that guilt looks like something he lost, not something he did.” 

“Wow. I didn’t know it was amateur psychology hour.” Frank said archly. 

“I know how it sounds, Frank,” Ray had said apologetically. “But it’s how I read him. I am not saying he is not guilty. I am just saying he is not guilty about that.” 

“Thanks Ray. I don’t mean to be rude. And I don’t think you’re naive. Well, maybe a bit.” Frank laughed. “But I need to think about this.” 

*****

The railway platform has a view across the bay, the slope down to the tiny harbour surrounded by pale blue, pink and green painted houses and the island, like a shadow or a cloud dimly in the distance. Frank can see Brian’s boat setting out from the harbour towards the island, bobbling slowly on the swell, Unig just visible and ghostly pale in the distance. He is smoking one last cigarette before his long journey home. Frank thinks the crossing to Unig shouldn’t be too bad today since the wind is quite light. 

Sipping hot coffee from a takeaway cup, he thinks about talking with Ray last night. The guy is an excellent cop and good company. He would be inclined to consider him a friend if he ever really thought he would go back to the town or needed that in his life. Like if he ever really needed a relationship, he would … He shakes his head firmly, banishing hazel eyes and a crooked smile from his mind. 

He is relieved to be leaving. This place just keeps making him question things he has been comfortable with his entire life. Even the seagulls wheeling above him seem to be mocking him with their cries and their chatter, like they know he has no right to imagine a place here. 

He stubs out his cigarette and takes a breath of the clean, cold air before climbing on the train. He stows his backpack above a seat with a view of the bay and watches Brian’s boat heading to the island. He’s probably dropping off food and maybe oil for Gerard’s heater or art supplies. He was getting low on that clay he liked to use. 

Frank thinks about what awaits him in the city. His empty apartment, his job and, well that’s pretty much it. Except maybe his usual seat in his favourite bar. An embarrassment of riches, he thinks. He can’t stop being sarcastic, even to himself. 

As the train’s diesel engine gets louder and pulls out of the tiny station, Frank drifts into thoughts of the case. For some reason the picture he drew of Jeffrey Clark keeps coming back to him. He gets why Ray thinks he’s a more likely suspect and wonders why he doesn’t. Does he want Gerard to be guilty of murder? Why would he prefer that to feeling … this? 

Then he realises why he has been thinking about the picture of Jeffrey Clark. 

He grabs his backpack from the overhead storage and rummages through to find his phone. 

“Fuck.”

There is no signal. There is also no WiFi on this rural train. And the next stop is forty-five minutes away. He paces impatiently by the door. 

By the time the train pulls into the next station, Frank is bouncing on his feet, agitated. There is a heavy ball of dread churning in his stomach like something awful is going to happen. And he knows he could have - should have - stopped it. It reminds him of before. He swears to himself that he is not going to fuck it up this time. 

He jabs the button to open the train door and sprints to a pay phone. He has never been more grateful that pay phones exist where cell signals are impossible. He pulls change from his pocket, pushes a couple of coins in the slot, dials the number he found scribbled in his notebook and taps a coin impatiently as he waits. 

The number rings and rings. He dials again, jabbing harder and sweating. 

Eventually there is an answer. 

“Police. How can I help you?” 

“Ray. It’s Frank. I think Gerard is in danger. I need you to help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, exciting! Just a short chapter this time just to get the plot moving.   
> What do you think Frank has worked out? Do you think you know what’s going on?


	8. All The Smiles That Are Ever Gonna Haunt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank and Ray to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Ghost Of You by My Chemical Romance 
> 
> Trigger warnings for death, attempted hanging, overdose

This boat to Unig is far worse than the last. Instead of Brian’s steady hand steering that chugging old fishing boat, Frank is holding a chrome rail in the bow of a rib. One of those fast orange inflatable boats that bounce off each wave sending lashes of salt water across his cheeks. The island lurches up and down in the distance like a rollercoaster, mocking him. His stomach, already pissed about the worry Frank had churning in his gut, is rebelling completely. He has already vomited twice and he is pretty convinced there will be a third if they don’t reach the island harbour soon. Ray has been kind and patient and not shamed him for his seasickness but Frank still wants to curl in a ball and hide. 

Ray had the police boat ready as soon as he had made it back to the town on the next train. With only the briefest explanation, Ray had offered all the help available. He had radioed Brian on his boat. By then, he was on his way back from dropping off a passenger and his regular delivery to the island but wouldn’t be back quickly enough to take Frank to the island. So Ray had called up the police launch from the bigger town nearby and they passed Brian’s boat on its return trip a long while back. 

When the rib reaches the island, the skipper agrees to wait and Ray joins Frank on the walk to the cottage. They are mostly silent. Frank worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. There is no-one to be seen on the island. It looks as it did when he left the previous day. But somehow it feels more dangerous now. The cottage still looks cosy, though the permanent plume of smoke from the chimney seems to have faded a little. 

“We need to get there,” Frank finds himself saying. 

Something, some instinct, is telling him that things are going to be worse the longer they take. The grass, the rocks, the birds, the clouds and the sun are all the same but the atmosphere of dread is too powerful. He laughs at himself in disgust. He has never been one of those detectives who talked about their instinct. It was always facts, evidence and manipulation of suspects’ psychology for him. This fucking place has started messing with his head again already, squeezing out his rationality. 

“Ok Frank. Do we need to run this last bit?” Ray suggests. 

Instinct and rationality square up to fight in Frank’s mind. 

“Fuck it,” he mutters and sets off at a sprint. Ray follows. 

They stop silently a little way away from the cottage. Frank indicates with his hands that he is going round the back while Ray knocks at the front door. 

Frank treads silently through the tidy garden, ignores the lump rising in his throat at the sight of the tiny gargoyles peeking out from between the stones in the wall he is following. He can hear voices coming from the window ahead. He thinks they are probably in the living room where Gerard would have been rebuilding the fire in the woodburning stove. He sneaks closer to try to hear their conversation. 

“I still can’t believe you thought hiding like this would keep you safe. I know you talked to the police. That’s the good thing about small towns. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. It only took a few rounds of drinks to know everything about you and your little hideaway. And I also know the best way to deal with you so there will never be any comeback on me.” 

“Fuck you, asshole.” 

Frank can hear the fear beneath the bravado in Gerard’s voice, but that doesn’t stop his heart rabbitting fast at the sound. He hasn’t heard it since they slept, embraced and warm, together. And he wants so hard to hear it, warm and laughing, not shaking with terror. Ok. Not the time for that thought. 

“Yeah. Whatever. You keep insulting me. You are still going to die like the shitty loose end that you are. Here, swallow these.” 

“No.” 

“I said fucking swallow these.” The sound of a blow and a grunt of pain makes Frank clench his fists tight. 

He hears Gerard gulp a couple of times and cough. 

“And drink this. Swallow again.” More blows followed by whimpers from Gerard and Frank is ready to attack. 

“Nice working with you,” the guy says, oozing menace. 

Then there is the sound of furniture scraping across the stone flag floor and Frank goes cold. He can’t see through the window without being seen but he can picture the scene in his mind vividly and grudgingly admits the guy knows what he’s doing. 

Frank thinks out the options. The window is closed and it would take too long to break it to climb in. He could break the glass and shoot the guy from outside but he needs a clearer view. 

Then he hears a knock on the front door. That’s the distraction he needed. Ray really did wait perfectly for him to be in place. 

He bends his arm and hits the glass pane as hard as he can with his elbow. It smashes cleanly and he swiftly aims. The guy is facing away from him, still looking towards the front door, that Ray is now hammering on and shouting. But Gerard is looking at him, bewildered. He is standing on a chair. 

And Frank pauses. 

Later he will hate himself for pausing. 

He is distracted for just a moment by a smile that flashes across Gerard’s soft features. And the guy, Jeffrey fucking Clark, turns, sees Frank and kicks the chair out from under Gerard’s feet. Frank had not seen there was already a rope around Gerard’s neck. And Gerard is kicking in thin air, grabbing at the rope around his neck. 

Frank shoots Jeffrey Clark. One, two. Just to be sure. He drops like a stone and Frank sprints back to the front door and helps Ray kick it in. 

And then everything is in slow motion. Ray holds Gerard up while Frank scrabbles around in the kitchen trying desperately to find something they can cut Gerard down with. He is grey and unconscious and it is impossible to tell if he is breathing. There is a bottle of whisky on the floor and Gerard stinks of it. And there are pills spilled across the rug. Frank can feel himself breathing fast and shallow and sees flashing lights across his vision. 

Ray forces Frank to let him do CPR on Gerard because Frank is shaking so hard. Ray makes him check Jeffrey Clark, who is definitely dead. Ray then gets Frank to call for assistance on Gerard’s shortwave radio. 

While Frank is waiting for a helicopter to airlift Gerard for emergency treatment, he stands stunned by the kitchen table. The tabby, Mercado, bumps her head against Frank’s hand looking for attention. He smoothes her soft fur, his hand trembling uncontrollably. 

All that Frank can hear is Gerard’s voice softly telling him “you need this” and all he can feel is himself turning away in the tangled bedsheets. And he has never been more sure in his life that he made a mistake right then. He knows this because both his instinct and his reason are telling him so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: I updated quicker than I had planned. But that is because ...
> 
> Bad news: you folks were enjoying the cliffhangers so much that I split this chapter in two. So you get two shorter chapters with two cliffhangers rather than one longer chapter with a little resolution and one cliffhanger. 
> 
> Sorry. So the question now is, how evil am I?


	9. Or The Last Thing I See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A really short chapter. Just a teaser really before the final chapter. 
> 
> Title from The Ghost Of You by My Chemical Romance.

Ray nudges Frank awake. 

Sleeping in the hospital chair is uncomfortable but he has refused to go anywhere until Gerard wakes up. He opens an eye to see Ray offering him a coffee and a paper bag. 

“I found a Starbucks,” Ray says, cheerily. 

Frank opens the lid and sniffs. He slurps the hot coffee and gnaws on a huge poppyseed bagel. “Man. I could kiss you.” 

Ray laughs, loud and uninhabited. 

“You’d better not. You stink and so do I.” 

“I would be insulted but we both know how long it’s been since we saw a shower.” 

“I told you we could rent a hotel room and take turns to sleep and shower, Frank. You don’t have to be here all the time. You could go have a smoke. I can see how twitchy you’re getting.” 

Frank laughs mirthlessly. 

“I want to be here when he wakes up,” Frank grits out. It’s not the first time he and Ray have had this conversation and he knows he’s being stubborn. But he feels guilty about what happened to Gerard and he wants to apologise so he can leave with a clear conscience. But maybe Ray does have a point. 

“You know you could get a hotel room. I could even give you the keys to my apartment. It’s over the other side of town but you could get there easily. You don’t have to stay here.” 

Ray looks at him thoughtfully. 

“Ok. Would you be ok if I got a hotel room near here? That way I can be here with you quickly if you need me.” 

“Sure man. I’m not going anywhere.” Ray squeezes Frank’s shoulder and leaves. 

Frank turns his attention back to the bed. Gerard’s lemon yellow hair is matted and tangled on the pillow and his black eyelashes and brows stand out starkly against his sallow skin. He can see bruises on his neck and around his eyes. He is breathing shallowly with just a tube for oxygen now. For the first couple of days after the helicopter had brought him to the city from the island, he had been on a ventilator in ICU. But he had been slowly improving and now he is breathing on his own and the effects of the forced overdose and attempted hanging would be assessed when he regained consciousness. 

So Frank waited. He waited to say sorry. Sorry for not realising sooner that the media coverage around the discovery of the body of William Strange would put Gerard in danger from the actual murderer. Sorry that he had read the artist’s guilt about the loss of his friend as guilt for the murder of his friend. Sorry for not realising the man he bumped into at the coffee shop the morning he left on the train was Jeffrey Clark. Sorry that he had not been quick enough shooting Clark to stop Gerard from being hung. 

Frank decided that this was enough to say sorry for. Anything else was going back in the file marked “irrelevant to the case” and would be thrown out now the case was over. He had spoken to his boss. There was little appetite for prosecuting Gerard for unlawful burial after everything that had happened to him. Jeffrey Clark attempting to murder him was enough to close the case of William Strange. So Frank did also have the pleasant job to tell Gerard that no blame or suspicion was attached to him anymore. Which meant there was no reason why he should need to see Frank anymore. 

Frank could go back to work and Gerard could go back to his island with his cats and his art and his sculptures that made Frank unaccountably hot around the back of his neck. 

Frank could get on with his life, his work, and remember this weird time like a dream of a different life. Because it wasn’t, couldn’t ever be, his. 

So Frank waited. 

And later that afternoon as the sun went down, Gerard woke up.


	10. Because It Takes A Mess To Love A Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard goes home. And so does Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to have a line from Record Ender as the title of the last chapter. Frank’s new EP cuts me deep, that song particularly, and this line is a perfect title for this last chapter.

Frank sits on the couch in his apartment and wonders what the fuck happened. He can hear him whistling in the shower. He sounds happy and that makes Frank smile. And the warmth of that feeling is like the most intoxicating drug ever. 

“Hey Frankie.” 

He turns to see Gerard, towel around his waist and another drying his hair. His pale chest and legs are damp and pink from the warmth of the shower. There are yellowing bruises around his neck and scattered across his chest and the black marks around his eyes have faded to green. He grins, lopsided and warm. Frank thinks he is the strangest and most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his apartment. 

“Gee. I …” Frank’s voice wobbles. 

“Hey. It’s ok.” Gerard sits himself on the couch and rests a warm hand on his thigh. “You’re not used to having anyone around here. Sorry. I’ll soon be out of your way.” 

“No. It’s ok. You can stay as long as you need to. Until you feel recovered enough to go back to Unig. I have the space, you know that.”

“Cool. But I still feel like I need to repay you so much.” 

“A few nights stay doesn’t cost much. It’s fine.” 

“No. I mean. C’mon Frank. You saved my life. I would have been found hung and the coroner ruled my death as suicide to avoid being tried for murder if it weren’t for you.” 

Gerard’s sincerity hurts Frank. He doesn’t know how to deal with praise. He has never thought himself worthy of it. He squirms. His face feels hot. But it’s not just the praise. Having Gerard around before he goes back to the island is making him wonder what it would be like to have him around all the time. And that isn’t something he knows what to do with. 

“I did what anyone would do,” Frank mutters, deflecting. 

“No-one else was there, Frank. You worked it out and you came back for me. I never thought I would see you again. And you stayed with me in hospital.” 

“I felt responsible. I still do.” 

Gerard smiles. 

“You are kinder than you pretend to be, Frank.” 

Frank shrugs. 

“I told you before you see what you want to see, Gerard. I am not this person you keep telling me I am.”

Gerard sighs. 

“How long before Ray gets here?” 

“See. You’re desperate to get back there already.” 

“Yeah. I miss my cats and the island.” 

“I can see why. It is beautiful,” Frank admits grudgingly. 

Gerard smiles, looking at Frank in a way he can’t quite fathom. He must be tired. His people-reading skills seem to be failing him. If this was an interrogation he would know exactly what Gerard was thinking - has known - but here, now, Frank is baffled. 

*****

Ray shows up the following day. 

He embraces them both with a broad smile. Frank wonders when he started living a life where hugs were a thing he did. Gerard keeps doing it too since he came round in hospital. Frank has never been a person who had or needed physical affection so he is needing time to acclimatise. It’s all a bit - well - new. 

“Is he looking after you well?” Ray asks Gerard. 

“Yeah. His cooking is amazing and his place is far tidier than mine,” Gerard laughs. 

“Hey! I’m right here. You can leave the Air BnB review til later,” Frank grumbles. 

Ray ruffles his hair. “Ok little man.” 

Frank huffs in mock outrage and Gerard laughs loud and uninhibited. And Frank’s heart twists in his chest. 

“So are you coming with us, Frank?” Ray asks. 

“What? Back to Unig?” 

“Yeah. Wouldn’t it be better to go back while you’re not working? You could explore as a visitor, not a detective. We could hang out, have some fun. And I think Gerard will need your help getting the place cleaned up.” 

“Uh …” Frank sighs. He is reluctant. It’s not just the boat trip or the thought of cleaning up broken glass and blood from Gerard’s cottage. His work have said he still needs to take a break so that’s not it. It’s just … he has never been a tourist, a visitor. He doesn’t have a life where people just want to spend time with him. It feels like it would mean something and he doesn’t know what that is and how it would work. 

“Please,” Gerard says quietly. “I would like that.” 

“Ok. But please don’t laugh at me when I am sick on the boat,” Frank mutters. 

He sees a look pass briefly between Ray and Gerard and he wonders what he has been duped into. 

*****

The boat trip to the island is different again. This time Frank is not grimly focused on his work or stressed at the thought that Gerard is in danger. This time he has Gerard pressed up tightly against his side and Ray sitting opposite. They are chatting amicably, deliberately distracting him from the motion of the boat. He feels nauseous still but the company of people there is a risk he might call friends pulls him out of his head and distracts him just enough. He is grateful and also, well, happy. He is starting to think that this thing, friendship, company, is actually something he could come to like. And he is even looking forward to returning to the island. He has been wondering how the seal pups are doing and he wants to go back to the standing stones. 

Frank sighs. Maybe the pull of the island was stronger than he thought. 

*****

Ray had something to do at the harbour so Gerard and Frank walk the path to the cottage together. There is no welcoming plume of smoke guiding them to the cottage. The fire has long since died out. 

“Thanks for coming with me, Frank. I was a bit scared about coming back here on my own. I mean, I know Jeff is dead and I am not under suspicion anymore but …” Gerard stops and Frank looks at him carefully. The emotion in the artist’s voice is making him uneasy. 

“It’s ok. If I can help, I will. And I like being here. It’s a bit like coming home.” Frank is really not sure why he said that. It’s not even a manipulative lie. It’s just true. And he’s scared. Considering the life he leads, that’s strange, to be scared of admitting he likes something. All the danger he’s been in and this is what he is most afraid of. 

Gerard reaches out a hand and squeezes his. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. 

They find the front door to the cottage is unlocked. Frank can’t remember if he left it that way since they left with such urgency last time. So he firmly pulls Gerard to one side and goes in first. He checks around to make sure everything is secure before calling Gerard in. 

They feed the cats, who are frantically happy to see them, and make tea. 

“Hey, Crowley. You miss me, puss?” Gerard asks the larger of the two tabbies. The cat threads himself between his legs and he grins fondly. 

“You really are a ridiculous and pretentious man, aren’t you?” Frank observes. Then he bends to stroke Mercado’s back who had been mewing loudly at him. 

“She likes you,” Gerard smirks. Frank shrugs. 

Neither are too keen to start cleaning the living room, even though the cottage definitely needs the stove to warm it. 

“Would you come to the studio with me? There’s something I want to show you.” 

Gerard leads the way up the narrow spiral staircase. It is cold in the attic but the air is warmed where the brightness of the winter sun reaches. He stands by the painting Frank found the morning he left the first time, biting his lip nervously. 

“I wanted to show you this. I have been trying to find a way to explain how I feel about you and I couldn’t put it into words so…uh.”

Frank looks at the painting of himself again, sees his features, sad, heavy lidded eyes and broad grin and his black hair curling into his neck, his heart offered out, vulnerable. It hurts to see himself so honest and raw. 

“I saw it. The day I left, I came up here and … I had no idea what to do with the feeling it gave me. It was too much. It still is, I think.” Frank squirms, like he is trapped under glass, under a microscope. 

“Look. I know this is hard for you. I know you find it hard to admit how you feel. But I am absolutely certain you feel something for me. I was sure I saw it from the start. And I saw, I see, all the defences you have put up to protect yourself from feelings that might cause you more pain. I am not going to ask you to tell me what happened to you in the past. I am only interested in now. But I can also see your heart and how much hurt hiding it is causing you. So I painted this before that night we spent together. It just hit me so hard that you conceal so much of yourself and battle to remain so cold and calculating when you really are not.” 

Gerard giggles. 

“I am going to have to add a lot more tattoos though. I had no idea you had so many. You are just such a contradiction. I mean, Frankie, they are all about your heart and I don’t even think you realise that. So I don’t know… But would you?” 

Gerard tails off, a little breathless, confused. He looks at Frank like he holds the keys to the universe, like he understands the question. 

So Frank kisses him. 

No hesitation. No words. Not gentle or tentative. Just kisses him. Full and deep and certain. Cups the artist’s round face in his calloused hands and demands everything. 

Until neither can breathe and they have to rest their foreheads together before they dive in again. And they have pulled sweaters and t-shirts out from under belts and waistbands and wriggled cool hands and fingers underneath so they can touch soft, warm skin. 

“This is ridiculous,” Frank says when they draw breath again. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“Frankie. You don’t have to know. Does this feel right?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then that’s enough.” 

And they pull and lean into each other, Gerard’s thigh pushing between Frank’s legs and rubbing until he moans at the hardness and friction. They wobble and shift, clatter into the painting on the easel, until Gerard shoves Frank hard in the chest and he topples with a startled grunt onto the floor. 

“What the …?” he mutters. When he sees the look in Gerard’s eyes he grins, wide and lustful. 

“C’mere.” 

So Gerard gets on his knees, prowls up Frank’s body like a cat, which makes him howl. Frank bites and sucks sharply on Gerard’s lower lip and he moans. Frank hasn’t forgotten what he said about liking pain, so he moves his attention to the man’s neck and collar bone, sucking and licking and nipping. Making Gerard squeak and purr. Then he tugs at the artist’s hoodie and t-shirt, pulls them over his head. He reveals soft skin, newly marked by Frank, a new layer over the traces of fading bruises from the attack. 

He touches the bruises on Gerard’s face gently. 

“These are nearly gone. I want to make new marks for you. To help you remember how I feel about you, not what that evil bastard tried to do to you.” 

Gerard gulps. 

“Frank,” he croaks. “I … oh shit. That means so much to me. I would like that. Do you … how do you ...?” 

“I think what you are trying to say is do I want you?” explains Frank. 

“I can see you want me,” Gerard smiles cheekily, glancing down at Frank’s tight, straining pants. “What I wondered was, do you want to stay with me?” 

“I … uh” Frank stammers , wide eyed with alarm. “I am not really … this isn’t …” 

“I get this is new to you. But I think you have been connecting with me, with the island, ever since you came here. You have been fighting it but I think you know it.” 

Frank looks at the man carefully. 

“How do you know that? How can you see inside my head more clearly than I can see inside yours? Thing is though. That doesn’t matter. In the end, I just don’t want to leave. Here or you.” The words come out quick, high-pitched, like they have been wrung out of him, hard. 

Gerard kisses him delicately on the tip of his nose. 

“You are welcome to stay for as long as you like - here and with me. Whichever, both.” He sighs. “I have to admit, I didn’t think it would be this easy to persuade you. Ray said you would be …” 

“Oh yeah? What did Ray say? You both been talking about me?” Frank says smugly. 

“Of course. He helped me get you here. He could see what I saw in you.” 

“He also helped me doubt the case I was building against you. Don’t make me regret letting you off,” Frank said darkly. 

“Quit trying to be scary. You’re a pussycat,” Gerard giggled. 

Frank sighs. “I am never going to get away with being scary again, am I?” 

“Not with me, Frankie. Bet it’ll work on real criminals though.” 

Gerard suddenly looks sad and Frank’s stomach lurches anxiously. Then he realises. 

“When we’re settled - shit. Yeah, when we’re settled, I will help you look at Mikey’s case, see if we can get him out of jail.” 

“Frankie,” Gerard breathes. “You would do that for me?” 

“Give me time. There’s a risk I would do anything for you.” 

Then Frank kisses Gerard again, no more words needed. They pull at each other’s clothes until they are only warm skin and wet mouths and fingers tangled in hair. And on the floor in the attic studio in the cottage on the lonely island, they share something unspoken and precious. 

Until the sound of Ray’s voice on the shortwave radio in the kitchen brings them back to reality. 

Ray tells them he needs to go soon. 

“I wanted to know if I am going to have company going back to the mainland.” 

Gerard raises an eyebrow at Frank who grins and shrugs. 

“Nah. You’re on your own, Ray,” Frank explains. 

“Yes!” he shouts. “Congratulations you two! I knew it.” 

Brian’s boat chugs determinedly through the waves, carrying Ray back to the mainland. Gerard and Frank watch the boat from the clifftop, arms wrapped around each other, hair whipped by the wind, smiling. Seabirds wheel in the air above them, disturbing the peace of the lonely island with their sharp cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have really enjoyed writing a murder mystery. It’s such a favourite genre of mine and not one I usually read in fandom. There are a few classic ones but my favourite is Tuesdaysgone’s brilliant detective!Frank fic - Purgatorio.  
> [https://archiveofourown.org/works/187243]  
> That story definitely helped inspire this. If you haven’t read Purgatorio, I recommend you do. The plot and relationships are great, I just love the detective/suspect dynamic so much. Beware - this fic comes with a Major Character Death warning. There’s a great little follow up that has fun with that dynamic too. 
> 
> The setting is inspired by my favourite crime dramas, particularly Scandinavian crime drama like Wallander, The Killing and The Bridge, the Welsh version, Y Gwyll/Hinterland and the Scottish version, Shetland. The island could be anywhere but I pictured it as a combination of Ramsey Island off the Pembrokeshire coast of Wales and islands like Skye, Lewis and Harris in the Inner and Outer Hebrides of Scotland. I had Portree on Skye in mind when I was describing the little port town on the mainland. The burial mound and chamber on the island is based on West Kennet Long Barrow in Wiltshire, UK. They are all places I would love to return to when the world is right again. 
> 
> West Kennet is near where my brother lives and he and his wife have been in hospital with Covid-19 during the time I have been posting this story. It’s dedicated to them and their recovery. Love you, big bruv. 
> 
> Honestly, it has really helped, during my country’s third national lockdown and the pandemic directly affecting my family, to have this story and the beautiful and isolated landscape I set it in to escape to. In fact, I enjoyed this wild and remote island setting so much that I have already started writing a second mystery set in the Island AU. I am already 12k words in! In that story you’ll find out more about why Frank is the way he is. I know I want to know more about that. If you want notifications for when the next story in this AU is posted you might want to subscribe to me or to the Island series. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented on the chapters as the story has unfolded. It’s really helped to know my twists and turns are drawing you more into this fascinating world I tried to create.


End file.
